


Sunday School Lessons

by wishforwishes



Series: a lack of self-awareness is key [2]
Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Harry, F/M, Feminization, Gender Dysphoria (implied), Infidelity, Jealousy, Miscommunication, Other, Pegging, Service Top Taylor, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 22:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishforwishes/pseuds/wishforwishes
Summary: Taylor wasn't lying when she told Harry she would fuck him properly next time. It's just that the next time ended up being three years later.





	Sunday School Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vondrostes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vondrostes/gifts).

> heyyyyy there Terran! It's your birthday again, so it's time for another lesbian haylor fic, I guess? they still don't know they're in lesbians, but they're getting there, I promise. Hope you have a great day! 
> 
> (obligatory disclaimer that all of this is fiction and i'm not implying anything about the actual personal lives of any people featured.)

If you stopped a dozen random people on the street and asked them what they know about Taylor Swift, they would all have something to say about her penchant for break-up songs. Taylor’s pretty self-aware about this reputation. No matter how amicably her relationships end, she knows she’s going to find something negative about each boy to jot down in a lyric. The inexorable pull towards vengeance wins out every time. 

And if she breaks up with someone because he cheated on her?  _ That’s  _ when she rolls up her sleeves, pulls out a notebook, and gets as nasty and mean as she ever lets herself be. Honestly, Taylor hates cheating like nothing else. It’s the only thing that a relationship can never come back from. 

So of course, she’s about to ruin the longest relationship she’s ever had by messing around with someone else behind her boyfriend’s back. 

It starts in October of 2015. Well, if Taylor’s being honest with herself, it starts a long, long time before that. Years. But October is as good a time as any to mark as the beginning, because October is when One Direction release the single “Perfect” and Taylor gets a taste of her own song-writing medicine. 

She can’t even really be mad about it; it’s certainly milder than some of the songs she put on  _ 1989 _ . In fact, the average listener wouldn’t even know it was about her if it wasn’t for the cheeky line about break-up songs (again, her reputation precedes her). Also, Harry never so much as sent her a text after she wrote a whole album about him, so she’s certainly not going to reach out after one song. It’s the principle of the thing. 

Taylor’s at dinner with Calvin, celebrating their eight-month anniversary, when she gets the call. It’s from a restricted number, and it would be rude to answer her phone in the middle of a quiet restaurant, so she lets it go to voicemail. Some unexplainable intuition makes her wait to listen to it until she and Calvin are riding away in separate cars; they’re both heading back to her place but they’ve learned there’s less chance of paparazzi following if it looks like they’re not leaving together. 

She presses play, heart in her throat like she somehow already knows what she’s going to hear, and there it is. The slow and deep voice that she once got to hear go high-pitched and breathy, and then soon after, was lost to her forever. Until now. 

_ Taylor. Um, Hello. I — I guess I won’t blame you if you delete this before listening to it, but. Uh. I just wanted to know. I wanted to make sure if you were okay, You know, with the song. I should have asked before it came out, I guess. Um, Sorry. So yeah, call me back if you want to talk about it, right? Right.  _

He called her from a private number; so he’s either being facetious about wanting her to call him back, or he’s even more drunk than she assumed he must have been to make the call in the first place. Her first instinct should be to be angry. Maybe she should even assume that the whole message was some passive-aggressive power move. She never asked his permission to write an album about  _ him _ , after all, so that could have been a barb of some kind. 

Like she said, that  _ should  _ be her first instinct. But instead, she holds her phone up to her chest, where the frantic beating of her heart is betraying her. She laughs wetly. 

“Harry damn Styles,” she says, and her voice is full of wonder. 

* * *

Another thing those random people would probably say about Taylor Swift is that she goes through boyfriends like others go through toothbrushes: rigorously discarded and replaced every three months or so. 

People who know a little more (but still know exactly nothing) assume it’s because she’s flaky or immature or unsure what she wants in a relationship. It’s harsh, but Taylor can admit it might have been true, once upon a time. The last few years, though? Her flightiness has been a product of knowing exactly what she wants, combined with the sinking feeling that there isn’t a man on Earth who seems to want it too. Other than Harry Styles, anyway. 

She has spent  _ a lot _ of time reflecting on things, after that night she and Harry spent together. Three years later, it’s still the only time she’s eaten anyone out. It’s also still the most erotic experience she’s ever had, and she’s never been able to shake the promise she’d made to Harry to fuck him. It was a promise left unfulfilled; they broke up less than a month later, because, well. Like she said, the flakiness and lack of surety used to be pretty standard for her. 

But it haunts her now: literally, sometimes. She gets nightmares (not wet dreams, although she certainly has those too) where she accidentally goes on stage wearing a strap-on dildo over her costume. Those are usually pretty comical in retrospect, but they always make her wake up in a cold sweat, terrified of anyone finding out the kinds of fantasies she gets off to when she’s alone. 

If she’s honest, they’re also the kinds of fantasies her mind will drift to when she’s in bed with someone. Sometimes, the only way she’s able to come when a guy is fucking her is to imagine that she’s fucking him instead. 

Taylor's not dumb. She knows that if she wanted a chance to top someone, there are more than a few women who would be willing. And considering how hard she got off when Harry was under her and she was thinking of him as her girl, she knows she probably has some unresolved bicurious feelings or something. But even if she were to shock the whole universe by dating another girl, she knows, deep down, she’d still be left disappointed and hollow in the same way all her boyfriends eventually made her feel. Because no girl can match up to Harry Styles either. 

If she’s honest, a part of her has been holding her breath, waiting for an opportunity to get back what they both threw away. A drunken voicemail doesn’t seem likely to give her that opportunity, but luckily he follows it up with a hungover text — this time from an actual number. 

**hey. it’s harry. just wanted to say sorry for calling you, it was totally inappropriate of me. hope you’re well. **

She gets it the following morning, and spends a few seconds wondering if the timing means they’re in the same time zone. Then she wonders if she should answer it. Calvin is just downstairs, trying and probably failing to make them breakfast. If she learned that he was texting with an ex-girlfriend, she knows she’d go mad with jealousy and assume he was cheating on her. 

Taylor answers the text anyway.

**What if I do want to talk about the single? Which means we’d need to talk about my album too, probably. Or did you not mean that?**

He texts back instantly. 

**no, i meant it. if you want that, of course we can. should i call you? **

Taylor almost writes out a yes, and then reality sets in. Calvin could call her down to the kitchen at any time, or even come up and hear her talking on the phone. No, talking right now would not be smart. 

**Yes, but later is better. Will you be free in the evening?**

Taylor recognizes what she’s doing. This is why she hates cheating — because it’s not ‘one mistake’. It’s a calculated series of choices that start with white lies and seemingly harmless secrets and lead to unforgivable betrayal. She hates herself for it, but if this is her one chance, she can’t squander it. And if it comes to nothing, Calvin never has to know, right? 

The cloak and dagger continues the rest of the day, as they text back and forth about their schedules and firm up a good time for him to call (when they’ll both be alone, they mean but don’t ever actually say). It turns out they are in the same time zone. They’re both in New York, in fact, and Taylor determinedly doesn’t think about how easy it would be to ask for his address.

Calvin was originally supposed to spend the rest of the weekend with her, and he seems more than a little disappointed when she claims to have forgotten some long-standing appointments. But luckily, he doesn't call her on it (or on the flimsy pretense of appointments on a Saturday) and by the early evening, she has the house to herself, and she should be alone tomorrow too. Just in case. 

She doesn't let herself think about the desired outcome of her preparations, because then she might get cold feet and block Harry’s number before he can call. Instead, she paces around her apartment and gets absolutely nothing done. Just past 6 PM, her phone lights up with an incoming call notification. Normally, when a potential boyfriend calls, she waits a couple of rings to avoid seeming desperate. But all artifice fled from her last night, as soon as she listened to that voicemail. 

Taylor dives for her phone the second it starts ringing. 

“Hello?” 

Funny how just that one word can make her feel years younger. 

“Hey there, Harry.”

* * *

What else could that hypothetical dozen strangers have to say about her? Well, if they paid at least a little attention to her music, it would be a safe bet that some would say she’s the type to burn bridges at the slightest provocation. She’s certainly written songs (even songs  _ about  _ Harry) that claim she doesn’t hand out second chances once she’s been spurned. 

So even Taylor is surprised at how easy it is to catch up with him. There’s an awkward silence after the initial greeting, which is broken by Harry’s signature honk of a laugh, and she joins in eventually, even cracking a joke about two people setting up a phone call when they have nothing to say. From there, they spend the better part of an hour chatting about what they’ve been up to over the last three years. 

She learns that Harry loved  _ 1989 _ , and he got a kick out of an album he partly inspired winning Album of the Year at the Grammys. 

“Who knows how long One Direction is going to be relevant, but I’ll always have that as a legacy,” he says. That comment confuses her, until she remembers the band announced a hiatus for the next year. Harry confides to her that it’s only a hiatus in name, and he, at least, has no intention of ever reuniting with the others. 

“Taking a leaf out of my book, huh?” Taylor says, mostly in jest, but it seems to sober him a bit. 

“Well. There are other reunions I’m more interested in having,” he admits.

There it is. That’s the opening she was looking for — the confirmation that this isn’t a courtesy call about a song reference. It’s the set-up for a tryst. 

She tries to play it cool at first, with a casual “Is that so?” but soon enough she’s letting him know she’s home alone for the rest of the weekend, and from there, she’s giving him directions to her Tribeca apartment, and he’s promising to head over there tomorrow morning — as soon as he can arrange discreet transportation, of course. 

Sunday morning. The day of the Lord, Taylor thinks wryly. As if she didn’t have enough to feel guilty about. But she knows she’s already past the point of no return — she knew it the instant she responded to Harry’s text — and instead of lambasting herself, she spends the rest of the evening obsessively cleaning her apartment.

She changes the sheets of the master bed, trying not to think about the fact that Calvin slept with her there just last night, and sets out candles to light in the morning before Harry arrives. She also digs into her closet for the harness and accompanying dildo she bought a year ago in a fit of insanity, after having the stage strap-on nightmare three nights in a row. 

They’re both still in the box, instructions and sample packet of lube and all. She takes them out of the packaging and thoroughly disinfects them anyway. Then she reads the instructions booklet, front to back. Twice. She has no idea if Harry’s even still interested in what she promised him the last time they had sex. Considering, though, that he’s an even more private person than she is, she figures she has nothing to lose by asking. If she can be sure of anything, she’s sure that Harry Styles is not one for locker room talk. 

She sleeps in the guest bedroom to avoid messing up the freshly made bed; hopefully the disheveling of the sheets will come later. Just like the previous day, she wakes up to a text from him: this time letting her know he’s arrived at the building, and that he wants to know the best way for his driver to drop him off without anyone else seeing. 

Taylor sends him directions while sprinting across her apartment to the bathroom, quickly rinsing her mouth out with listerine and pulling on the clothes she had laid out — jeans and a button-up shirt, which isn’t typically her style, but something tells her wearing a dress or skirt wouldn’t be a good move here. Her impeccable instincts are proven right once again, when she opens the door for Harry and almost falls over in shock at what  _ he’s  _ wearing. 

“Sorry, I know I’m a little early, but I wanted to avoid —” Harry trails off when he notices she’s still just standing in the threshold of the door and not moving out of the way for him. She should probably. Do that. It’s just.

They’d both expressed worry about anyone noticing him arriving at her apartment. But it seems like he’s done all he can to keep anyone from recognizing him in the first place. The signature long hair is still a dead giveaway, but it frames a face softly accented with eyeshadow and lipgloss, and the curls come to rest on shoulders clad in a long-sleeved lilac dress that covers up most of his tattoos. 

The brief, excited smile that lit up Harry’s face when she opened the door for him is fading now. He looks down at his dress like he’s only just remembered what he’s wearing, and bites his lip anxiously. 

“Right,” he says, clearly nervous. “I just thought —” Taylor lurches forward before he can finish and tugs him past the doorway. She wants it to be a moment out of a romance movie — spinning him in her arms and kissing him up against the door — but unfortunately, while they’re three years older, they’re both still only nominally in control of their own limbs. 

There’s a lot of awkward, coltish scrambling to get the door closed in the first place. She almost chips a tooth trying to pull him into a kiss before she can manage to fit their lips together. When she tries to wrap his legs around her waist and pick him up, they almost fall over. It’s already the best sex she’s had in years. 

Eventually, after much giggling and stumbling, they make their way to her bedroom, where Taylor pulls away from him with a gasp. 

“I forgot to light the candles!” she says, scandalized with herself, and immediately runs over to the nightstand to correct this error. Once she’s finished lighting them (they’re lilac-scented, which is certainly a Grand Sign of Destiny) she realizes Harry’s been distracted too. By the harness that she left out on her dresser last night. Oh,  _ god _ . 

Taylor can feel herself go bright red. 

“Um,” she stammers, “I was totally going to — to talk with you about that. I didn’t mean to like, make assumptions, though!” She wants to fling herself out a window. It’s probably only a few seconds before he turns to respond to her, but it feels like a century. She squirms in embarrassment. She supposes this is just desserts for her delayed reaction to his clothes.

His face is alight with hope. “I didn’t want to assume anything either,” he says, approaching her slowly. “But I’ve never been able to stop thinking about the last time.” He takes her hand, and she notices his nails are painted a striking white. “I drove myself crazy wondering if you liked it as much as I did.” 

“More,” Taylor croaks, her throat suddenly as dry as it gets at the end of a concert. “However much you enjoyed it, I enjoyed it more.” His exhale of relief is so loud it’s almost a sob. He lifts their joined hands up to her lips and kisses his knuckles. 

“That was the only time I’ve ever done anything like that,” she admits. “And we were both kind of figuring it out together at the time, but I’m sure you know more about how it works by now.” Getting fucked, she doesn’t say. She also doesn’t say that a part of her hopes he doesn’t know — that he’s still as green about all this as he was three years ago and as she is now. 

“Uh, yeah, I have a little more experience at this point,” Harry says sheepishly, sitting down on her bed. “I’ve got a boyfriend, actually. And uh, he’s cool with it, by the way.” 

There goes Taylor’s hope that this could ever amount to something. If Harry is dating a guy who’s more than happy to eat him out and top the daylights out of him, then she clearly isn’t needed. Some of her disappointment must show on her face, because Harry’s quick to follow it up. 

“But he doesn’t really understand some other stuff. Like. Like the way I felt when I was with you.” 

Instantly, before he can even elaborate, Taylor knows what he’s talking about too — even though neither of them said it out loud at any point, that night. It’s not that difficult to piece together, considering how he’s dressed, but it’s still nice to have confirmation that she was never alone in this.

“He doesn’t know how to treat you like a girl, Taylor says. 

Harry shudders and crosses his legs. “Yeah. That. And it’s funny, because he was only with girls before me, and so I thought, maybe... But he’s making such an effort to like, assure me that he’s okay with dating a guy, and being boyfriends that I feel like —

“Like you can’t bring certain things up,” Taylor finishes for him, settling down beside him. 

“I get it. My boyfriend is a great guy, and he's cool with things too. But he also definitely doesn’t understand things like this. Like, he'd definitely never let me —” Taylor cuts herself off, blushing.

Harry’s the one to finish her sentence this time. “He’d never bottom for you,” he says, shooting a loaded glance over at the strap-on resting innocently on the dresser. God, why’d she go for one of the realistic dildos? Surely a brightly colored one would be less weird. 

“Yeah, I’ve definitely never used that on him,” Taylor says, laughing awkwardly. 

“I’ve never used it at all, actually,” she confesses. “Like I said. Haven’t done anything like this since. Well. Since.”

“Since you made me a promise,” Harry teases. “I’m more than happy to talk you through it, if you want.”

It’s an echo of an offer she made once — to talk him through how it felt when he ate her out. She likes this suggestion decidedly more. 

He guides her down on the bed, but before she can protest him being on top, he straddles her waist like he’s settling down into a saddle. Cowgirl, Taylor’s mind helpfully provides, and hell, she is  _ more  _ than okay with that. She reaches out without consciously deciding to, sliding her hands up under his dress to grip his thighs. 

Harry grins and rucks up the hem a little further, revealing what looks like a silk slip underneath. Then he settles his hands on her chest and starts — much too slowly for her liking — unbuttoning her shirt. Once her bra is exposed, he pulls one of the moves she’s been dreaming about for years and starts sucking on her nipples through the fabric. 

It makes her wonder what else is still the same underneath the superficial changes. Harry’s boyishness is gone, for one thing. He’s more measured, and (over the phone at least) a little quieter. That obnoxious teenage boy swagger covering leagues of insecurity is gone, replaced by a more genuine self-assuredness. He’s also clearly confident enough to start dressing a certain way, at least in private. 

As Harry kisses his way down her stomach, Taylor allows herself a moment of regret that she didn’t get to see him grow into himself. Then she lets that moment pass, and reaches down to thread her fingers tenderly through his hair, pulling gently, and then harder when it makes him moan. 

God, it’s so long. Much longer than hers. Even without the makeup, she thinks that he makes a convincing girl. That thought honestly does more to arouse her than Harry’s attentions have — although that’s certainly helping. Before he can unbutton her jeans, she shifts her grip to the back of his head and hauls him back up to her level. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His mouth and jaw are shiny and sticky where the gloss has rubbed off. God, how did Taylor ever give this up? Especially for petty reasons? 

“I want it to be like last time,” she tells him. “I want to get you off first.” He looks down at her, eyes crinkling at the reference, and then he hops off the bed entirely. Before she can worry, she sees that he’s only retrieving the harness. 

“You know, you’re going to have to take off your pants anyway, before you can put this on,” he says, spinning it around with a flourish. She rolls her eyes, but starts shimmying out of her jeans and underwear anyway. 

She’s not sure if it’s a feminism thing, or just a ‘her’ thing, but sometimes Taylor feels uncomfortable being naked when her partner is still fully dressed. But when said partner is wearing a dress, apparently that discomfort doesn’t surface. Instead, she finds herself hoping that he keeps the dress on the whole time. It seems like she might be getting her wish when Harry hands her the harness before gracefully (for him, anyway) stepping out of a pair of black boxers. 

The fact that he went to great lengths to dress up but still wore comfortable underwear sends a rush of fondness through her. When he returns to his perch astride her lap, she surges up until she’s sitting on the bed with him in her lap. Harry gives her a questioning look, but she just shakes her head and wraps her arms around him.

“I missed you,” Taylor says. She can feel him melt into her at the words.

“Me too,” he whispers. He pulls back a little and starts fumbling with the buckles of the harness, holding it up proudly once he’s unclasped it. Then, it’s a matter of fitting her into it, which he walks her through expertly (she can’t help the jealousy that rears up insider her at the thought that clearly other girls have topped him before too). 

Once it’s securely on her, Harry turns to the packet of lube that came with it. And dear  _ god _ , if Taylor thought him in that dress was the hottest thing she’s ever seen, it’s nothing compared to the sight of those painted fingers wrapping around a dick (her dick, she thinks giddily) and slicking it up, brow furrowed in concentration. Too late, she realizes he’s using up all the lube that was in the packet, and she panics.

“Um, wait, stop,” she babbles, and Harry lets go and sits back on his heels immediately. 

“I don’t have any more lube,” Taylor admits. “For, um, you know.” She gestures behind him vaguely. Instead of looking dismayed, he grins.

“I _ may _ have told my driver to roll up the partition and then, uh, prepped myself on the way here,” he confides, a sparkle in his eye like he knows exactly the effect that revelation will have on her. 

“Oh my god,” Taylor groans. “You’re literally gonna kill me. Jesus.” 

Harry laughs in delight. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be up for, but I know what I was hoping for, so.” He shrugs. “I figured, plan for the outcome you want.” 

“I need you to get on my dick immediately,” is what Taylor thinks in response to that, but doesn’t actually mean to say out loud. Before she can regret it, she watches Harry’s eyes darken in lust. 

He shuffles just that little bit closer to her, and then lifts himself up. As he slowly slides down onto her dick, Taylor swears she sees the face of God. 

There’s no physical sensation, of course. But the visual is more than enough. Harry looks — well. At home. There’s no other way to describe the pleased, almost  _ relaxed  _ little smile on his face he gets when he’s flush with her hips once more.

“Okay,” he says, and his voice is high and breathy again, the way she’s dreamed about all this time.

“I’m just going to ride you for a bit,” he tells her, “and then you can start shifting your hips up toward me when I tell you to.” Taylor nods dumbly, watching him slowly work himself up and down, a few inches at a time. Before she knows it, he’s actually, properly, bouncing on her dick, and letting out a near-constant stream of choked off moans and whimpers. 

Maybe she should have her hackles up that he’s running the show and taking his pleasure without any real effort from her. Like every other “should” thus far, it’s just hot as hell instead. Besides, it’s not long until Harry’s urging her to move her hips with him, so she’s thrusting up into him in time with him bearing down onto her. That’s apparently a marked improvement, because his moans get louder. It makes her wonder —

Taylor grabs him by the hips, stilling his movements. Then she starts thrusting up as hard and fast as she can while holding him in place. Harry’s eyes roll back in his head and the moans turn to squeaks and whines. He goes malleable in her lap, and his hips jerk erratically in her grip a couple times before going still again. When she sees a dark stain start seeping through his dress, she realizes he must have come. 

He rests his face in the crook of her shoulder, panting like he’s run a marathon. Taylor intends to give him a minute to get his breath back, but he starts fumbling with the harness almost immediately. 

“Wanna get you off too,” he says thickly, his voice still blissed out but focused. Well, if he insists. They get the harness off her, and then her pussy is blissfully reunited with his mouth. It’s just as enthusiastic as she remembers. 

After riding out the best orgasm she’s had in years (yes, she’s spotted the trend), they lay down together in comfortable silence. 

Harry’s the one to break it. She feels him shuffling a little in her arms, and realizes he’s picking the paint off his nails nervously.

“So,” he asks tentatively, “Could we do this again sometime?” 

Taylor bites her lip, trying to choose her words carefully. 

“Of course. I really want to. We just have to be careful, so Calvin doesn’t find out before I can end things with him.” 

Well, apparently she chose wrong. Harry goes completely stiff. 

“What do you mean, ‘so he doesn’t find out’? He doesn’t know I’m here?” 

Okay, out of everything he could be upset about, it doesn’t make a lick of sense that he’s focusing on that.

“What, are you seriously gonna judge me about that? Does  _ your _ boyfriend know where you are?" Taylor counters.

"Yes," Harry says, clearly incensed, and his body comes alive again suddenly, only to pull away from hers. "I told you that he was okay with it. And you said — you said yours was okay too." 

Taylor wracks her brain for when this imaginary conversation could have taken place. It takes her a second, but then —"You mean when you said he was 'cool with it'? I was supposed to know that meant he was cool with you cheating on him?"

“I'm not cheating,” Harry says, his face flushed bright red. He looks angrier than she's ever seen him. “It's not cheating if you're open about everything beforehand.” 

As he speaks, he gets out of bed and jerkily pulls his underwear back on. Taylor doesn't make a move to stop him. She's rapidly becoming aware that she's the bad guy in this situation, and she has no idea what to do to fix it. Of course, she's still her, so she can't help scrambling for a higher moral ground.

“So what, you're just sleeping around with a bunch of people and he's fine with it? Why even bother calling each other boyfriends, then? Although I guess it doesn’t even make sense for him to call you that, considering —” 

“Stop,” Harry says, voice suddenly calm, and Taylor knows she went too far. For a moment, they just stare at each other. She wonders if he’s trying, like her, to figure out how it all went to shit so quickly. 

“Delete my number from your phone, please,” he says at last, and then he walks out the door. 

* * *

If you stopped a dozen random people on the street — if you stopped literally any person in the world — and asked them what they know about Taylor Swift, not a single one of them would say that she was gay. 

After all, she goes through guys like other people try on clothes, right? And hey, didn’t she write a whole album about that womanizer from that one boy band — Harry Styles, right? 

That’s all the world knows about her. About either of them. And who is she to issue a correction? That would require knowing who she  _ actually  _ is — and her identity has been tangled up with Harry for so long that she feels like she’ll never know for sure who she is if they keep avoiding each other. 

Taylor is sick of not being sure. 

She doesn’t delete his number. She doesn’t call or text either. Not yet. But she knows she will someday. When they’re both ready. 


End file.
